by E. K. Blair
Declan still has a hold on my arm when we walk over to the table.
“I’m impressed,” I say, and it’s then that he releases me. When I look at him, I notice his jaw flex as he grinds his teeth. His focus is on the table and not me, so it’s with a soft voice, I speak. “Declan?” Looking over at me, I ask, “Are you sure this isn’t a bad time? I can go.”
He relaxes his face and runs his hand behind his neck and down along his lightly stubbled jaw. Releasing a sigh, he says, “Stay.”
Nodding my head, I turn away and take a step over to the arrangements and begin studying each one. There are five, each ornate and exquisitely put together. The designs unique and exactly what I had in mind.
I still when I feel Declan’s fingers graze the sides of my neck, and as I turn my head to see him standing right behind me, he moves his hands to the collar of my coat, and starts to slip it off my shoulders. Adjusting myself, I allow him to take my coat and watch as he lays it across the back of a chair.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
“What do you think?”
Keeping my eyes on him, I don’t answer immediately. I want the contact to see how he responds. It doesn’t take long for a sexy grin to cross his face.
“They’re perfect. I’m not sure how to pick one over the other.”
“So take them all,” he says.
“Take them all?”
“Why not? Who says you have to choose?”
“Isn’t there always a choice?” I ask with an undertone that states we’re talking about more than just flowers.
“Not when you’re a Vanderwal.”
With superficial offense, I say, “Is that what you think? That because of my name I simply take what I want?” He quirks a brow without saying anything, and I add, “Is that what you do? Because correct me if I’m wrong, but the McKinnon name sure isn’t one that people are not aware of.”
“Are we talking personal or business?” he questions.
“Business is personal when it belongs to you, and last time I checked, it’s your name that robes this hotel.”
He walks over to one of the other tables and takes a seat. Leaning back and resting one of his arms on the table, he says, “Yes. I take what I want.”
I stay put, standing by the flowers, and question, “In which case?”
“In all cases. Now stop standing there and sit with me.”
“Is this you taking?”
With a smile that he plays so well, he says, “Are you up for grabs?”
“No,” I state curtly. “And these games you tend to enjoy playing with me are getting old, and frankly, I don’t enjoy being toyed with as if I’m here solely for your entertainment. So again, cut the shit, Declan.” I grab my coat and start walking towards the door, hoping he makes the move I’m goading him into.
His hand grips the top of mine as soon as it hits the door handle, and I freeze, keeping my head down.
“Don’t go,” he says, and I remain silent as he continues to speak. “You’re not a toy, Nina, and I apologize if I made you feel that way.”
“So what is this?”
“This is me, simply wanting to get to know you,” he says, and when I look at him, he adds, “You say you don’t have friends, right?”
Turning my head away from him to avoid eye contact, he says, “Everyone deserves a friend, Nina. Even you.”
“And you think you’re gonna fill that void?” I ask, looking back at him. “What makes you think I need that?”
“Tell me then, who do you talk to about the things you can’t with your husband?”
I pull my hand out from under his and move to face him. “Who do you talk to?”
Silence.
“You expect me to just put myself out there when I don’t know anything about you? And what do you give me in return, huh?” I question.
“The same,” he answers. “So let’s start now. Before you knocked on my door a few minutes ago, I was on the phone with my father. He was being a fuckin’ knob as always, ridiculing me for decisions I’m making that he doesn’t have a say in, and it drives him crazy to not hold the power in this situation. So there you go, my father’s a bastard to me.”
His eyes are sharp as he says this, the intensity prevalent, and I feel like I just made progress. But I don’t want him pissed right now, so I break the tension, and make him smile when I tease, “A fuckin’ knob? Is this some Scottish insult you guys throw around because I’ve never heard anyone call someone a knob before?”
“Yeah, darling, it is, but if you prefer something more authentic, I can call him a fannybawbag, but then to the random American, I’d probably just sound like a pussy.”
I laugh at his statement, but let it fall off my lips as I look down at my feet and quiet myself.
“What is it, Nina?” he asks, taking note of my shift in mood. When I don’t immediately respond, he takes my hand, holding it in his as he walks me over to a table and we sit down. “Tell me something about you.”
“I don’t know what you’re wanting.”
“Anything. Just give me a piece,” he says, but when he sees me hesitate, he offers, “Tell me why you don’t have any friends.”
I release a breath, giving him what I know he wants to hear. “Because I’m not from this world. I’m not like those women, and . . .” I stall, taking a moment before adding in a hushed voice, “I’m afraid they’ll judge me, so I rather they just fear me because it’s easier that way.” When I say the words, the truth that lies within them surprises me.
“So you hide?”
“I suppose.”
“Are you lonely?”
“Do I seem lonely?” I question.
“In this moment? Yes.”
Deflecting, I turn it on him, asking, “And what about you? Are you lonely?”
“I moved here from New York when we broke ground on this place. I’ve been so wrapped up with getting everything fit for opening, so yeah, I’ve become lonely.”
“When did you leave Scotland?” I ask.
“I used to spend my summers here in the States when I was in university back home. I’d come here and work for my father, learning the ins and outs of the business, but I didn’t officially pack up and leave until after I graduated with my master’s,” he tells me. “That was seven years ago.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Scotland?”
With a nod of my head, he answers flatly, “Yes,” before asking, “Where are you from?”
“Kansas.”
“What brought you out here?”
I shift in my seat, marking my discomfort with answering, but before I can speak, my cell rings from inside my purse that’s lying on the table. Picking it up, I see it’s Bennett, and answer the call.
“Bennett, hi,” I say so Declan knows who I’m talking to.
“Just checking in. My meeting wrapped up a lot earlier than I expected, and I was hoping to see you,” he says sweetly.
“You just saw me.”
“So is this your way of saying you’re too busy?”
“No, I’m never too busy for you. Are you still at the office?” I ask as I cast a quick glance over at Declan and see the irritation in his eyes.
Good. Get jealous.
“Yeah. Are you hungry? I can have something delivered.”
“That sounds great, honey,” I tell him, playing up the sweetness just to pluck on Declan’s nerves, and I can tell it’s working by the tensed muscles in his neck and his set jaw. “I’m on my way now, okay?”
“All right. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
Looking at Declan, I tell him, “I have to go meet Bennett.”
“Yeah, I heard,” he says, clipping his words.
I run my hand over his clenched fist that rests on the table, and say, “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“Talking to me.” Staring into his eyes, I tell him again, “Thank you,” so he can hear the sincerity in my words.
His hand relaxes under mine, and he flips it so that he’s now holding mine, and with a smile, says, “Let me walk you out.”
As he helps me with my coat, I finally feel like I’ve found the match I’ve been looking for. There have been a few men before Declan, but none that ever gave me the promise I feel he may have, so I let him hold on to my hand for a moment longer than I should as he walks me out to the valet who is waiting with my car.
I slip into the driver’s seat and Declan peers down, reminding me, “Friday is your appointment with the caterer. Four o’clock.”
“I’ve got it on my calendar.”
“You mean that paper calendar that doesn’t provide you with notifications or reminder alerts?” he teases.
Laughing at his dig, I say, “Yeah, that one. But apparently that’s all I need since you tend to do the reminding for me.”
“I’ll see you Friday then?”
“You’ll see me Friday,” I affirm before he closes my door, and I start driving over to the Willis Tower to meet my husband for a late lunch, all the while, feeling optimistic for the first time in a long time.
I SIT BY myself on the front steps of the school, waiting for Pike to meet me so that we can go home. He’s in trouble with one of his teachers again and has detention, so I take the hour to get all my tears out so that he doesn’t see me cry. Apparently I’ve lost track of time when I hear the metal doors bang open and pop my head up to see Pike walking down the steps. Quickly, I wipe my face, but he sees the tears anyway.
“Why’re you crying?” he asks, but I don’t say anything as I stand up and shrug my backpack on over my shoulders. “Elizabeth? What happened?”
“Nothing. Can we go now?”
“No. Not until you tell me why you’re upset.”
Hanging my head down, I kick a couple pebbles on the sidewalk, telling him, “The kids in my class make fun of me.”
“What did they say?” he asks in a hard voice.
“Doesn’t matter,” I tell him. I’ve been at this school for a few months now. Long enough to hit a growth spurt and no longer fit into the clothes my last foster family bought me, so now I’m stuck wearing clothes that Bobbi gets from thrift stores, and the other kids pick on me for the way I look.
“It matters to me,” he states, and when I look up at him, I say, “They call me names. Saying I look like I get my clothes from a garbage can.” I can feel the tears fall again as I continue, “They call me names to my face and then whisper and laugh at me.”
“Those kids are ass wipes.”
“I have no friends, Pike,” I say, crying. “I’m all alone, and I wanna go home. I miss my dad, and I wanna go home.”
In a second, he has me in his arms, and I wet his shirt with my tears. Every night I pray to a God I’m not sure even exists that I’ll wake up from this nightmare, but I’m still here. I’m almost nine years old and I haven’t seen my dad, heard his voice, felt his hugs—nothing—in nearly four years. I have a case worker who has only seen me twice since I’ve been here, and both times I cry and beg for her to take me to my dad, but she won’t. He’s too far away. I’m starting to believe that I’ll never get him back because waiting until I’m fourteen seems like forever.
“I’m sorry,” Pike eventually says as we stand on the sidewalk hugging. “But you’re not alone. You have me.”
He’s right. He’s the only one I have, but he’s a twelve-year-old boy, and next year he’ll be at the middle school, leaving me here alone. Alone with kids that don’t like me.
When he draws back and looks down at me, I cringe at the greenish tint left over from the black eye Carl gave him the other day. I learned fast that when Bobbi is around, Carl is semi-pleasant, but the moment she leaves, he starts drinking. I try to hide and be invisible when he drinks because he’s scary to be around. He yells a lot, and if Pike and I make too much noise, he gets really mad and usually hits us.
My first slap came a week after I got here. Bobbi left for the weekend and Carl was downstairs watching TV while I was upstairs. I found a radio on the top shelf of the closet in my room and was standing on a chair to get it down, but I slipped, causing the chair to tip over and the radio to crash to the floor. Carl busted through my door and saw the broken radio. Before I knew what was happening, he had yanked me up by the arm and slapped me across the face. The burning sting held to the skin of my cheek as I cried into my pillow afterward.
Pike and I take our time walking home, but when we get to our street, Bobbi’s car is gone, and only Carl’s truck is in front of the house. My stomach sinks. It’s the weekend, so I’m sure it’ll just be the three of us. Bobbi never tells us when she’s leaving, but lately, it seems to be all the time. She’s never home anymore.
“Just go straight to your room,” Pike tells me as we walk to the front door. “I’ll grab you a snack and bring it up.”
“Okay.”
But that wouldn’t happen. Instead, I was about to be introduced to a black hole that would claim another piece of my faith in human decency.
“Where the hell have you kids been?” Carl yells at us when we walk in, and the gravel in his voice makes me cling to Pike’s arm in fear.
“I had detention. I told Elizabeth to wait for me so she wouldn’t have to walk home alone,” Pike explains.
“You think I have all the goddamn time in the world to be wondering where you shits are?” he shouts and then grabs Pike by his shirt, ripping him out from my hold on his arm and shoving him away from me. He then gets in my face, stinking of beer and cigarettes.
“And you . . .” he spits as I start to cry, which does nothing but piss him off even more. “Fuck! Why are you always fuckin’ crying? I’m not gonna spend another weekend here with you listening to this shit.” When he lifts his dirty shirt and starts to unbuckle his belt, the chills of fear run rampant, spiking through my veins.
Pike bolts off the floor and goes after Carl, but it only takes one hit to knock Pike back, and Carl has his hand locked around my wrist as I scream and thrash. Suddenly, he has me lifted off the ground with a firm hold around my waist.
“Let me go!” I scream. “Stop! Let me go!”
I hear a crash, and when I look up through my tears, I see I’ve kicked over a couple of Bobbi’s ducks and have broken them.
“You little shit!” he yells, but it’s blended with Pike’s screams as well, and I panic. Sheer panic.
Screaming, crying, kicking, and the next thing I know, I’m being shoved into the small hallway closet. Carl throws me hard against the floor and then pulls me up by my wrists, using his belt to tie me up to the lower garment bar. Everything is a chaotic blur. Everyone is yelling, and the terror in my body is making it hard for me to breathe through my shrieking cries for help. I hear Pike, and I hold on to his voice when Carl’s fist smashes into my face.
SLAM.
LOCK.
Darkness.
“No! Let me out!” I cry. “Pike, help me! Let me out! Please!”
I can hear the beating Pike is getting now. Grunting. Heaving. Screaming. I twist and yank my wrists, trying to free myself, but the leather is biting into my skin, and I’m only hurting myself. The side of my face where he hit me pulses in beats of hot pain, and I fall onto my bottom with my arms pulled above my head and cry. I cry for what feels like years in the darkness.
My body grows tired and weak. Arms cold and tingly. I stand up, wedging myself between the wall and the garment rod, and I can feel the warmth flowing back through my arms to my hands. I try wriggling my fingers around to grab on to the strap of leather, but it’s too dark to see anything and my fingers are too small. What would I do anyway? Unstrap myself and walk out of here? Carl would kill me, so what’s the point in trying?
I listen to the faint sound of the TV in the living room as my head starts to droop. I’m so sleepy, but my arms hurt too bad when I sit, and I can’t sleep standing up. Not sure what to do, I remain wedged against the wall while I keep jerking out of sleep when my he
ad falls. My mind is a haze. I try resting myself in the corner, but can’t find any comfortable position. Soon enough, I hear the sounds of the TV shut off and listen as Carl walks out of the room.
Oh my God. He’s not gonna let me out.
Tears fall, burning my skin on the way down my face, and I can only assume that Carl split my skin when he punched me, but nothing can stop them from falling down my cheeks.
WAKING UP, MY arms are freezing. I must have fallen because I’m now sitting on the floor. I have no idea if it’s night or day, and the urge to go to the bathroom is overwhelming. When I stand up to relieve the pain in my arms, I press my legs together to keep myself from peeing. I begin to cry, wondering what I’m supposed to do, but in that very moment, I hear Pike on the other side of the door.
“Elizabeth?” he whispers.
“Pike?” I whimper.
“Shh. Carl is sleeping.”
Trying to choke back my cries to stay quiet, I strain my words, “Please, Pike. Get me out.”
“I can’t,” he says. “The lock on this door works from the inside.”
“What?”
“Without the key, it can only be unlocked from inside,” he tells me.
“He’s got my hands tied. I can’t move, and I can’t see anything,” I say, beginning to panic, and he hears it.
“Don’t cry, okay? I’m here,” he tries assuring me.
My body begins to twitch as I clamp my legs tighter. “Pike?”
“Yeah?”
“I have to pee,” I tell him. “Really bad.”
“Fuck,” I hear in a muffled voice.
It’s then the pain and urgency take over, and I feel the warmth seep out, spreading through the fabric of my pants and trickling down my leg. Mortified. Embarrassed. I slip to the floor and begin weeping as quietly as I can.
“Are you okay?” he asks, but I don’t answer, I just continue to cry.
PIKE STAYED WITH me on the other side of the door for hours last night, talking to me, trying to keep me company. I must have fallen asleep again because I don’t remember him leaving. The TV is now on, so I know Carl is awake. My stomach has been growling, but I’m too scared to call out to him.
